


The Shrug of Unreal Wings

by 221BroadwayIron



Category: Pride and Prejudice (1995), Pride and Prejudice (2005), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Darcy Doesn't Enjoy Balls, Elizabeth to the Rescue, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Panic Attacks, Regency Era, Regency Inaccurate Hand Holding, Socially Awkward Darcy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29229597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BroadwayIron/pseuds/221BroadwayIron
Summary: “Can you open your eyes?”He shook his head, choking again. The thoughts in his mind were making his stomach churn far worse than being at sea during a storm. He couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t,couldn’t. He was going to vomit. Or pass out. Or both. She should leave, he wanted her to— To— He needed to get out of here.He needed to get out of here.“I believe it will help if you just open your eyes.”“You’re— You’re going to…lookat me.”----------Or, Darcy tries to escape the crowd of party-goers by fleeing to the garden. Elizabeth finds him anyways and proves to be surprisingly helpful.
Relationships: (pre-relationship), Elizabeth Bennet & Fitzwillliam Darcy, Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy
Comments: 32
Kudos: 227





	The Shrug of Unreal Wings

**Author's Note:**

> I've been watching Pride & Prejudice (and its many re-makes) multiple times over the last month or so, and this is what unintentionally came of it. I'm excited to be posting my first P&P fic (and my 15th one overall)!
> 
> As far as timeline, when this oneshot takes place is very much up to interpretation. In my imagination, there is another ball shortly after the one at Netherfield, while Georgiana is visiting her brother, which our characters attend. It could also occur later on in Elizabeth and Darcy's relationship, though, if you feel that fits better. Either way, please enjoy!
> 
> Title is a line from ["Lying"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51626/lying), by Richard Wilbur.

Every time, it was always the same.

A swirl of skirts, fabrics of every color, so many textures and patterns catching the light, spinning into one dizzying dance, dragging against the fabric of his own suit.

Close air, humid with cloying perfume and the heady scent of too much alcohol. Too potent to breathe deeply. Even the trembling breeze that swept through each time the wide doors opened to admit more people couldn’t dispel the stuffiness. 

( _More people._ )

High ceilings only echoed the noise of the ballroom back into itself, stabbed by glittering chandeliers, and voices raised to be heard over the din they themselves were making. They stood too close, demanded interaction, begged attention.

A brush against his arm, hissing whispers, laughter floating over the faceless crowd. A few heads turned, then a few more. 

_They’re talking about you._

No, they’re not. 

_Yes, they are._

An uncomfortable feeling filled his head, as though all the blood had either just rushed to his face or drained away from it. Faint and pounding all at once. It was followed by a familiar ringing beginning in his ears and his self-control fumbled. He caught it. 

Barely.

_Out, out,_ out. _Before you—_

Outside. Away from this.

He forced his back against the garden wall, trying, _trying_ to focus on the gritty stone underneath his fingertips, the freed wind on his flushed face, and not on the way that his chest was squeezing as though there was a noose caught around his rib cage. His throat closed, eyes screwing shut, as though if he tried hard enough, he could simply will himself to Pemberley, will himself away from here, will himself out of existence. He couldn’t do this, _why did he think they could do this? And now Georgiana was—_

He’d left his sister behind.

“Darcy? Mr. Darcy?”

_Go away, please go away._ He wasn’t here, he wasn’t here—

“Darcy!”

Deuces, that was _her_. It was Miss Elizabeth’s voice. She didn’t sound as far away now. Sounded like she was just around the far hedge. 

_Please let Georgiana not be with her. I’m supposed to be—_

_Supposed to be—_

Oh _heaven,_ he couldn’t. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do this, couldn’t do anything.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles scraping roughly against dirt and stone. _I’m not here, don’t let her find me, please don’t let her find me. I can’t— I need to—_

He choked on an aborted inhale, felt it catch in his chest, tried to breathe through it, failed to breath through it, and then Elizabeth’s voice came again, seeming to float down from the space above his hunched shoulders. 

(Was he sitting? That explained the dirt. When did he sit?)

“Mr. Darcy?” she asked again, voice lowering from her previous surprised tone into something much softer. She did grow up with four sisters, after all. “Are you— You don’t look well.”

“Fine,” he gritted out in return. 

His shirt collar was strangling him. 

( _Fine._ ) 

He was going to suffocate. Suffocate right in the garden because his lungs were jammed in place like a rusted watch cog. Suffocate, and leave his sister all alone inside with the crowd.

_The way they were looking at her, looking at you? They know. They were laughing at you for it. They know, did you see their faces? You have brought shame on your family for being so negligent of Georgiana. They hate you, the family name has been ruined, Georgie will forever be looked upon as fallen. And you, who can barely make it through one ball. They know, everyone knows. They—_

“Can you open your eyes?”

He shook his head, choking again. The thoughts in his mind were making his stomach churn far worse than being at sea during a storm. He couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t, _couldn’t._ He was going to vomit. Or pass out. Or both. She should leave, he wanted her to— To— He needed to get out of here. _He needed to get out of here._

“I believe it will help if you just open your eyes.”

“You’re— You’re going to… _look_ at me.”

He couldn’t stand the way people looked at him. 

( _Don’t look at me, don’t look at me. Turn away, I’m invisible, please don’t look._ ) 

It was always the same look when he had one of his episodes, ever since he was a child. It was expected then, or at least acceptable. His nanny would hold him, his parents would reassure him, his tutors would punish him. Each one thought they could make the attacks stop. They lessened over time, certainly, but had never gone away. 

Now there were whispers behind his back that only made it worse. They pitied him, thought he was weak, fragile, ungentlemanly. There were insinuations about his upbringing and his character. They thought he should have grown out of it, thought he should have trained himself out of it.

But he _couldn’t._ He couldn’t, he _couldn’t._

(He tried. There were tricks, warning signs before an episode. He _tried._ He was better than he used to be, he was _better,_ but some things still fell through his constant, careful attention, and he didn’t know how to stop those ones. How could he stop something he didn’t realize was happening until he was trapped in the middle of it?)

“I promise not to look at you,” assured Miss Elizabeth. “I shall stare at this… truly _enticing_ hedge the entire time. I will not so much as turn my head, you have my word. Not even were you to pull a… an angry duck from the inside of that handsome jacket you seem so desperate to ruin by sitting in the garden.”

She was being _funny._ Heaven bless her, she was trying to make him laugh.Although he certainly appreciated the effort, he found himself shaking his head again. He didn’t want to see her looking at him—see the expressions he so hated in Elizabeth’s eyes—but _he_ didn’t want to have to look at _her_ either. To acknowledge that she was here, bearing witness to… this.

There was a little sigh and a rustle, which indicated she had settled herself on the grass by his side.

“May I— May I have your hand?”

_What?_

“I have found it to be helpful with my sisters when they are upset. Having your hand stroked can be comforting and is something simple to draw your focus away from your thoughts.”

Still no response. 

Elizabeth couldn’t tell if he could even hear her. She had experiences innumerable with upset sisters and mothers with nerves. She had no experience with wealthy men she hardly knew, and had only just begun being friendly with, who were also, evidently, prone to attacks in social situations.

“Mr. Darcy?”

Nothing.

“I am going to take your hand. If you would like me to stop, please tell me or pull away.”

Very carefully, she picked up the palm he had been desperately pressing into the rough stone. A shudder ran through his body, but other than that, there was no movement. He didn’t pull away. After inspecting his pinched face a moment, Elizabeth gently turned the hand over in hers.

It was large. Next to it, hers appeared slim and delicate. His palm was calloused in spots, but not roughened with labor. From the reins of a horse, perhaps? A callous on the index finger indicated the press of a pen and she recalled fondly the near constant letter writing to Georgiana from her stay at Netherfield Park. Next, she ran her fingers over the blunt shape of his fingernails, even and trimmed short, massaging the heel of his hand with a thumb.

“Georgie,” he panted, head tipping back to support itself against the wall. “Where—”

“She’s perfectly alright,” Elizabeth replied. “She was discussing music pieces with my sister Mary when I left and Colonel Fitzwilliam was attending them both. There’s nothing to fret over. Mary may sermonize too often, but she is quite even tempered and nothing like… other members of my family.”

He found his breath easing as the whirling in his mind was instead overwritten by the gentle pressure against his knuckles and her soft words. Georgiana was alright, his cousin and Elizabeth's sister would see to it. His heart moved from pounding uncomfortably close in his throat to its usual location in his chest. He exhaled heavily. 

“There,” she whispered, hands still stroking his. They traced over a narrow scar on his thumb. “That’s better, is it not? You may open your eyes now.”

He did and Elizabeth smiled.

“There you are…”

Darcy blinked once at her, dazed, and then his face colored almost comically fast and he dropped his gaze. He tugged his hand away, cradling it against his lap instead. It was tingling from her touch. “I am… very sorry. Forgive me, I don’t… That doesn’t usually— I—”

“It is quite alright, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth’s hand darted out to give his arm a familiar squeeze. “It is only me.”

Her dark eyes, when he dared to meet them again, were sincere and held none of the expressions he had been fearing. There was concern, and perhaps something almost protective, the sort of look she more often gave to her sisters. He found himself glad that Elizabeth had been the one to come after him. The task usually fell to Georgiana, though it pained her greatly, or someone much less suitable.

“I thank you for your… attentions,” Darcy spoke and then cursed the stiffness in his voice. He hadn’t meant to sound cold; he was trying to be grateful.

Miss Elizabeth paid it no mind and leaned forward conspiratorially. “I only did it because I knew I would be handsomely rewarded,” she confided in a whisper.

“Oh?” His stomach had clenched hard at the beginning of her sentence, though it only lasted until Darcy saw the teasing glint in her eye. Of course she was teasing; Elizabeth would never say such a thing in seriousness. Relaxing into the banter, Mr. Darcy lowered his voice as well. “And what, pray tell, do you desire as a reward, Miss Elizabeth?” 

She pretended to think it over. “The next two dances would be agreeable, one for me and one for Miss Georgiana. And then a stroll through the gardens with my sister and Mr. Bingley, and your sister, if she wishes some fresh air.” 

“I expect that can be arranged.” 

_Bless_ Elizabeth Bennet. To choose something which would not only satisfy those who wished him to dance, but also prevent him from having more than a brief encounter with anyone he did not care to talk to, and then remove them from the crush of the crowded ballroom altogether. It was a diplomatic “reward” he could have never hoped to engineer for himself, and, yet, somehow Miss Elizabeth had figured it precisely.

Darcy climbed to his feet, feeling a little as though he’d spent the last two hours at swordplay instead of sitting in the grass, and extended a hand to help Miss Elizabeth stand without accidentally tearing a hem. “Shall we?” he asked with a smile.

“We shall.”

She took Mr. Darcy’s arm and, together, they turned their faces to the ballroom.

  
  


_El fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Any input would be much appreciated!


End file.
